


Symphony No. 8 in B minor

by ThisPeep



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, father figure lestrade as well, some platonic johnlock and mormor feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2566958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisPeep/pseuds/ThisPeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With John married and Moriarty dead, it doesn't take long before Sherlock falls back into his safety net- drugs. Everything is going as well as can be expected, until Sherlock starts to hallucinate an old friend. Well, sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symphony No. 8 in B minor

Sherlock was sitting, alone of course, on his seat. John’s old one was left untouched, ignoring his presence and the passage of time.

 

It was an odd form of existence. 

Not the chair, it did what chairs usually do after they fall into disuse, but Sherlock’s new existence was odd.

No cases had been over a seven since John got married. Since Sherlock returned. (Since Moriarty died.) And now people’s skin looked sickly, no light ever hurt Sherlock’s eyes anymore, and nothing that touched him felt solid. The last solid things he could remember were John’s fist and Moriarty’s hand in his.

 

Of course, there’s always the chance that Mycroft will appear and Sherlock will be able to feel his disapproval. That’s always been a solid thing he could feel. But then, was there a reason for it? 

 

Sherlock’s eyes opened, and he glanced over to the side. Of course, John’s chair wasn’t there, and Sherlock wasn’t sitting down in his own. He hadn’t been to 221B in two weeks now, although he had gotten onto Baker Street. That had been by accident. Even now, though, Sherlock still could escape to his memory of it, cling to it as a pathetic life line.

His head was silent. There was that, at least. He could ignore the salty, disgusting taste in his mouth and most of his memories when his head was that quiet. Sherlock’s eyes closed again and he let his head fall back, the dirty mattresses serving as a comfortable enough bed.

Something touched Sherlock’s hand and he startled, opening his eyes but seeing nothing he didn’t expect. The dull contents of a crackhouse, that was all. Sherlock’s mind was playing tricks on him again, or perhaps the drug was. 

But Sherlock knew that hand.

He paused, then closed his eyes again, just to see. He turned his hand palm down and raised it off the ground slightly. No one paid attention, he was hardly doing anything more than the others to attract glances. A few people probably thought he was dead, or asleep.

A hand closed around his fingers, and Sherlock felt a thumb running over his knuckles. The hand under Sherlock’s turned, the back of its finger’s under Sherlock’s. Sherlock splayed his hand open and fingertips spread apart slowly from the center of his palm, slipping between his own. Sherlock relaxed and the moment he finally held the familiar hand Sherlock opened his eyes and the sensation disappeared. 

In that moment, Sherlock felt the desire to close his eyes and keep them shut forever.

 

That faded into a dream. Nothing like it had happened for another week, and Sherlock wrote it off as impossible. Just a silly conjuring of his high mind, not even one good enough that Sherlock had seen anything either. 

He didn’t delete the memory, though. Sherlock hadn’t even gotten so much as a hallucination to go with it and it became one of his newer lifelines. The touch had been solid, it had been real, even if it hadn’t been.

Sherlock was somewhere else this time, an alleyway. A cool hand slid across his jaw, thumb brushed over his cheek, before the hand slipped around to the back of his neck. Sherlock leant forward, remembering to keep his eyes shut, searching.

The hand pulled back and Sherlock opened his eyes when the contact left, giving a soft sigh of disappointment. He had always sought out touch when high, in almost any form. Found it grounding, comforting. It allowed him to enjoy the silence of his mind that much more.

Sherlock fell back against the bricks, jumping when his phone sounded. He fumbled for it, John asking if he’d like to come round for dinner tonight.

Sherlock almost sent back yes before recalling Mary’s ability to read him well, he wouldn’t be able to hide the drug use if he went over just that night. Instead he sent back a reply asking if tomorrow was fine instead, and smiled at the confirmation.

For the first time in three weeks, Sherlock went home.

 

Withdrawal set in quickly the moment Sherlock felt it’s hints at arrival he went to his bed and turned on his side, trying to get some sleep. He only managed a few hours before he woke up shaking, pain and heat wracking his core, and sped to the bathroom to throw up. 

A cold hand stroked his back gently and Sherlock froze, but reasoned that withdrawal can cause some of the same odd side effects as being high can. He sighed and lay down on the cool bathroom floor, breathing heavily and letting himself be lulled to sleep by the soft hand.

 

Dinner had been a unique affair, Sherlock faking bright smiles but listening to Mary’s and John’s stories with genuine interest. And the baby was a constant source of happiness to Sherlock. She had always developed something new, like a long term, giggling experiment. 

Sherlock greatly enjoyed spending time with her, although he hadn’t been able to much this time. Mary had taken a single look at Sherlock and known something was up, so Sherlock had said he was in recovery from the flu, which is why he hadn’t been able to make yesterday.

So, to keep the baby from getting sick, Mary had made sure that Sherlock didn’t get too close for too long of a time.

Annoying, but understandable. Sherlock made a note to come up with a lie that let him interact with Ms. Watson freely next time. He rather hoped that she would end up liking science, so that they could end up running experiments together, if Mary were to let her.

 

It ended, and Sherlock returned to Baker Street, pushing drugs from his mind and looking at cases. Borning, drab, easy, pointless, nothing that Sherlock would ever find himself inclined to take. He shut his computer and fell back against the wall, giving an annoyed huff of air.

Although it had never worked to help give relief, Sherlock tried getting drunk. Again, the only thing it brought was confusion and a mild feeling of disgust.

To compensate he took more cocaine than usual, in another lovely little alley.

 

Clearly, the tactile hallucinations had influenced him greatly, because Sherlock dreamt of two cold hands running over his chest. Some sort of itchy fabric was wrapped around his eyes, tied at the back of his head, and the same type of cloth bound his hands securely.

No seeing, no touching. Annoyingly symbolic, but then Sherlock’s subconscious had always been prone to drama. 

Fingertips ran over Sherlock’s lips, unsensual, inspecting them carefully. Dream Sherlock opened his mouth, and the fingers drew back. In response, dream Sherlock practically deflated with disappointment, but soon found himself gasping into another mouth, lips against his own.

Now, dream Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what to do, considering real Sherlock wouldn’t either. Whoever was kissing him seemed confident, and it felt nice, felt like how he imagined what people did in the movies, when he had bothered to take notice.

Even so, Sherlock wasn’t sure it was correct. Or normal. His subconscious clearly wasn’t better versed in snogging than Sherlock himself was.

“You have to see me, Sherlock.” Breathed a voice, against dream Sherlock’s lips, and dream Sherlock frowned.

“I’m trying.” He defended- or tried to, but no sound came out. 

“Sherlock.” The voice sounded different, now. “Sherlock!” It sounded like...

 

Sherlock blinked awake, gasping and blinking at the harsh light. Lestrade stood before him, looking incredibly relieved.

Ah. Lestrade had been shouting Sherlock’s name to wake him up, and that seeped into his dream.

He was still in the alleyway, and now his head hurt something fierce and he had a DI fussing over him. Lestrade slipped his arm under Sherlock’s and helped him stand up, taking on the majority of Sherlock’s weight. “You alright, lad?” He asked, and Sherlock didn’t reply for a moment or two.

“I… am unsure.” Sherlock replied. Something was going on with him, his hallucinations were disconcertingly consistent. “What’s it like to be in love?”

Lestrade turned his head to look at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. “It’s…” Hard to explain. “Not an explanation you’ll remember, given the state you’re in. Ask me again tomorrow if you still want to know.”

But tomorrow was so far away.

 

“You look awful.”

It had been a few days. Sherlock been awoken by a cool, nonexistent hand stroking through his hair. Then the comment. A teasing, accented drawl that sent nostalgic shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

He kept his eyes closed, hand reaching up to close around the one in his hair, then moved up it and over an obviously nonexistent arm. He stayed his hand, brushing over the feeling of expensive material. 

“Go away.” Sherlock replied, voice clipped, and removed his hand. He curled up on his bed, tugging the blanket over his shoulders.

There was a dip in the bed, just beside Sherlock. “You know I can’t do that, pet.”

Sherlock sighed, he knew that. If telling his hallucinations to piss off worked at all his life would have been nicer than it had been. “You kissed me. Why are you here? Want even more?”

The voice turned amused. “I’ve never kissed you, pet. What in the world are you talking about?” It asked, and Sherlock felt annoyance flare in him.

“You did. In my dream. You kissed me.” He shot back, and was made uncomfortable by the stretch of silence that followed.

“Did you kiss me back?”

 _Yes_. Sherlock curled up more, his knees pressed against his chest. “Go. Away.” He repeated. “I’m done with you. You’re dead. All you’re doing now is annoying me in the singular way that can only be achieved by the hallucination of a dead enemy.”

Awkwardly specific. The weight on the bed disappeared, and Sherlock regretted telling the hallucination to go. But it had changed, now it was tactile and auditory. Getting more realistic. That couldn’t be good, had to mean that Sherlock was getting worse somehow.

 

Sherlock returned from a case Lestrade had convinced him to take, and found Moriarty lying on his couch.

He nearly choked, Moriarty glancing over to him with a small smile. “Hello, pet. I know it took me a while to get visible but, to be fair to myself, this is my first time being dead.” 

Sherlock blinked. Tried to take in what was happening. Blinked again.

“Do I have a tumor?” He asked, and Moriarty tilted his head before appearing next to Sherlock, a small distance away, just outside what Sherlock would call his personal space. 

Moriarty inspected Sherlock carefully, and Sherlock relished the feeling instead of shying away how most people did, enjoying seeing the gears turn in Moriarty’s head. “No, I wouldn’t say so. You think I’m a hallucination, which is understandable, and a symptom of something going wrong in your head, but you show no other signs.” Moriarty disappeared and popped up back on the couch, now sitting with his legs crossed beneath him. “Don’t worry, kitten, you’re fine. Minus the drug addiction and depression, I mean.”

Sherlock scowled, going over and sitting in his chair, facing away from Moriarty. Moriarty appeared in John’s chair next, and Sherlock’s heart plummeted with grief and anger. On the plus side, Moriarty seemed to notice and relocated to the mantelpiece in a heartbeat, laying down across it and ignoring everything that was on it as well.

“You _must_ get over him, kitten.” Moriarty berated, sending the chair a disapproving glance. “Get rid of that, at least. Replace with something that actually fits your décor.” 

That made no sense. John’s old chair did fit in with the rest of the flat quite nicely, in Sherlock’s opinion. Mary had even decided that the flat, while messy and appearing largely unorganized, at least would look nice if it got tidied.

“After we make it over, of course. Boring colours.” Moriarty gestured disparagingly around, then crossed his arms together and rest his head on them, watching Sherlock. “Are you ignoring me?”

“I’m trying to.” Sherlock replied, but it was hard to ignore someone like Jim Moriarty teleporting around your flat and talking incessantly. 

Moriarty frowned. “Why?” Sherlock had never ignored, or even tried to ignore, Moriarty while he was alive. It seemed rude to do that just because he was dead. Weren’t the dead meant to get more respect than the living, anyway?

“You’re not real.”

Ah.

Moriarty sighed, materializing in front of Sherlock leaning forward, and he brushed his fingers over Sherlock’s cheek lightly. Cool hands. Sherlock straightened up and swallowed in surprise when he could actually feel Moriarty’s touch, before he remembered that was the normal bit. But still, seeing or hearing or feeling him had been one thing.

All three at the same time felt too real. Sherlock turned his head away and Jim retracted respectfully at the rejection, giving a forced smile. “I am, Sherlock. Believe me when I say I’m not pleased that death hadn’t turned out to be an eternal sleep, and that I’m not haunting you on purpose.”

Moriarty crossed his legs and sat in the air, at level with Sherlock and just in front of him. “In fact, I’ve tried going away from you. Once I get too far I just _pop_!” He paused to exaggerate the abruptness of the event. “Right back to you.”

Sherlock flushed in humiliation. Judging by how things had progressed, Moriarty had been around since he died and had simply been slowly discovering how to communicate with Sherlock. Which meant he had seen Sherlock at some great lows.

“I’ve looked away.” Moriarty murmured, making Sherlock to return his gaze to Moriarty and lock eyes with him. 

There had always been an unquestioned and strong amount of respect between them. Moriarty never got too close, Sherlock was never rude, but still. Seeing his enemy at their weakest couldn’t be something that Moriarty would purposely ignore.

“You’re lying.” Sherlock replied, not dissapointed that Moriarty would lie, but that he would lie so badly. Sherlock had proof. “You stroked my back. When I was going through withdrawal.”

“Ah, yes.” Moriarty nodded his head once in confirmation. “As I said, I can’t go far. Nor can I turn off my ears. I heard what was happening, and you seemed rather distressed. Thought I could help.”

In general, Moriarty seemed unperturbed that Sherlock had said he was lying. In fact, he hadn’t denied or confirmed it. Sherlock felt the need to open up that line of conversation again. “So you lied.”

Moriarty sighed. “No. I looked away three times, not every time.” He regretted not having moved his gaze somewhere else more often, though. This wasn’t how he’d like to see Sherlock, not as the addicted remains of a genius.

Sherlock pulled his gaze from Moriarty’s eyes but found nowhere to move it but the floor. “What three times?”

 

Honestly, Sherlock never thought there would be so many stretches of quiet if he talked to Moriarty. He’d always imagined there’d be constant back and forth, debates, nonstop talking and possibly some completing each other’s sentences. Just fitting together perfectly, even while talking, following the other’s train of thought effortlessly.

But here they were, another point where neither of them was speaking. Moriarty was reluctant to answer, and Sherlock was waiting for him to. It wasn’t awkward, but it was silence. Not entirely comfortable, exactly, but Sherlock could see why Moriarty would hesitate.

“You can figure out one.” Moriarty said eventually, tentatively.

Sherlock sorted through his memories, through the trash bin of the ones he’d pushed away, and quickly discovered which one Moriarty was talking about. Of course.

The things one did when desperate for a high and low on cash.

“The other two?” To Sherlock’s credit, his voice didn’t waver, and he barely missed a beat before reply.

“When Lestrade was with you. I wasn’t needed.” Moriarty replied, and Sherlock didn’t completely understand his reasoning but nodded anyway.

Sherlock paused, then swiped his hand through Moriarty’s torso, passing through it without any sort of sensation. Culture seemed to think that going through a ghost was meant to be cold, but the only time Moriarty had been cold was when he was solid. Now, it was as though nothing was there at all.

“And you’re needed now?”

Moriarty smiled, reaching out and intertwining his and and Sherlock’s hands. Somehow, he’d solidified it, although Sherlock couldn’t see a visual difference. He closed his hands over Jim’s, holding it tightly as he felt emotions he’d been pushing away for the past months wash over him.

Sherlock brought Jim’s hand to his lips, nodding his head with actual understanding. “Thank you.” He whispered, unsure if Jim would even hear him with how quiet he was. But with nothing but the silence of the flat to cover up with words, and considering they were actually rather close, Jim did hear.

He didn’t comment, knowing Sherlock would prefer it if he thought Jim hadn’t heard him, but he internally smiled. “Admittedly, I didn’t turn into a ghost because you needed me. Apparently, that’s not quite how the afterlife works. Pretty sure I’d be a guardian angel then, not a ghost.” He murmured.

Right, there was the question of why Jim actually was here at all. “Why are you a ghost? Did you sell your soul or something?”

Silence.

“ _Wow_.” 

Jim looked offended, and Sherlock paused before he started laughing. “ _Joke_.” He defended, raising up his hands to block a pillow that had launched itself off the sofa and started flying at his face. Sherlock kept laughing, and eventually Jim gave in and started laughing as well.

Jim instinctively leant against Sherlock for support, habit left over from when he was alive, and Sherlock was surprised to find the giggling man completely solid to the touch. He placed his hand on Jim’s back, laughter dying out while intrigue replaced it in his mind. Perhaps Jim’s state of matter was connected with his emotions, somehow. The more human he felt, the more solid he became.

“First of all,” Jim started, pulling back to his unsettling position in the air. “I did not sell my soul. Everything I had was because I earned it fair and square, alright?” Sherlock nodded mock solemnly, earning another pillow to his face and then he had to fight down a grin.

“Secondly.” Jim shot Sherlock a suspicious glance, to make sure he was still paying attention. “I’m a ghost because I have unfinished business here. Also, thirdly, you need to watch more movies. You should know this.”

Sherlock paused, tilting his head. “So I’m your unfinished business?” He asked, and Jim gave a light shrug.

“Something to do with you, at least.”

Interesting.

 

“You should take a painting or two from my old flat, kitten, really.” Jim was berating Sherlock’s interior decoration again. He spun Sherlock around, tapping his nose and grinning at the surprised processing blinks that Sherlock gave in reaction.

“Pet, you are too cute.” Jim teased, and Sherlock recomposed himself enough to glower at Jim menacingly. 

A few pillows starting switching positions around on the couches, and papers were lifted up and put into stacks. Jim glanced around, eyeing different places and Sherlock’s flat started to get much tidier very rapidly.

“Oi. Cut it out.” Sherlock instructed, and Jim turned to him with a surprised look on his face.

“Cut what out?” Jim asked innocently.

Sherlock flicked his shoulder. “The friendly poltergeist actions. It’s disturbing. You keep cleaning up after me.”

Jim shrugged, swiping his hand over the sink while the dishes started to clean themselves. “I’m experimenting. I wasn’t able to control these many things at once before, you know.”

Ah, well, Sherlock could accept that. He glanced around the flat, noting the amount of things that were actually moving and silently admitting that yes, it was a bit impressive. “So are you my maid now?”

Jim grinned. “Do I get a… clothes thing?” His grin faded into a thoughtful frown. “Wait, no.”

“Outfit?” Sherlock offered.

“Ah, yes.” Jim smiled again. “Thank you. Do I get an outfit?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, rubbing his temples with a hand. “First, a thesaurus.”

 

 

There was a knock, and Jim raised an eyebrow at the door. Sherlock glanced back and forth, shooting Jim a glare. But he didn't disappear, only shrugged.

Lestrade hurried in, quickly starting to explain a case. About two sentences in Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to take the case- not interesting enough. Although he’d been re-cleared to help consult, thus far he hadn’t done much with it. Only a case or two had held his interest, no more.

Jim poked his side. Sherlock ignored him. It was clear that Lestrade couldn’t see him, so acknowledging Jim’s presence would earn him a fast trip to a mental hospital. 

Then again, that may be exactly where he belonged.

“Sheeerlooooock.” Jim laid on his back, at level with Sherlock’s shoulders, and he was tapping Sherlock’s shoulder. He was successfully annoying Sherlock.

“Take the case.” 

Surprising. Sherlock shot Jim a sidelong look, and concealed it by making it a thoughtful glance. Sherlock looked away from people without explanation often enough, it wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary.

Jim smiled, rolling in the air into a sitting position before he appeared in front of Sherlock, blocking Lestrade. “While I’m very flattered that so far you’ve seemed completely content talking with me for mental stimulation, you should go back to taking cases. It’s what got me interested in you in the first place, after all.”

Sherlock bit back the desire to roll his eyes, Jim was haunting _him_ , not the other way around. It was clear he was still rather interested with Sherlock, so Sherlock didn’t have anything to prove.

And yet… Sherlock gave a short nod. “Alright. I’ll meet you at the station.” 

Jim did have an implied point. He didn’t want to be singularly responsible for keeping Sherlock entertained and therefore away from his drug habit, and that was understandable.

Lestrade smiled in relief and departed, so Sherlock could return his attention fully to Jim. “Will you be accompanying me on solving this, then?”

Jim gave a Cheshire Cat grin. “You know it, baby.”

 

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what he expected when he took Jim on the case with him, but this wasn’t it.

He was helping.

In an almost infuriating way. That sort of I’m-just-smarter-enough-than-you-to-be-noticeable type of helping. Pointing out a small detail here or there that Sherlock missed, and it was with no small amount of annoyance that Sherlock realized that Jim must have purposely made a less important case or two easier to solve. So that the ones that went unsolved would be less noticeable, and Lestrade’s faith in him wouldn’t be shaken too badly.

When Sherlock asked Jim about it, he looked surprised. “I put more effort into some over others, but I never dumbed anything down for you, pet.” He corrected, which also made sense. The easier ones would have been the ones Jim didn’t find as fun to plan.

“Although it was always fun to watch you give your grand speech.” Jim added, placing his feet down on the floor silently and leaning against the wall just next to Sherlock. “Looking forward to this one as well. I get to see you clever all up close and personal.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “Ooh, I’m excited.”

Sherlock ducked his head to hide an amused smile at Jim’s theatrics, as well as a slight blush. Compliments, always a weakness. And doubly as effective, coming from someone like Moriarty.

Sherlock raised his eyes after a moment, glancing around. Jim had already figured it out, and had teasingly offered to give Sherlock a hint, and now Sherlock was dedicated to solving the case by himself. And quickly.

 

They didn’t talk much, there was always the risk someone would overhear and realize Sherlock wasn’t just muttering to himself about the case but rather talking to some imaginary person.

Sherlock bent down and inspected a hat in the corner, glancing over the dirt on it and smirking when he found a torn leaf. He stood up hold, the red leaf in between his fingers. Jim popped up beside him and and practically buzzed with pride.

So that must have been the hint, then. Except Sherlock had gotten it on his own. He knew where this leaf was from, and he slipped out the back of the building, mentally mapping out a route before he stopped walking and turned to face Jim.

“You can teleport.”

“Can I? I hadn’t noticed.”

Sherlock stepped closer, carefully placing his fingertips in Jim’s chest. Jim wrinkled his nose and glanced down, looking slightly put off by the sight. “If you become solid and touch me, could you teleport me as well?”

Oh, now Jim look intrigued. “I... am not sure.” He could end up only teleporting Sherlock’s jacket, or perhaps just his arm. 

Sherlock pulled his hand back, waited a moment, then placed it on Jim’s now-solid chest. “You know where I want to go.”

“I’m not sure I fancy being a mode of transport, really.” Jim admitted, put closed his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and slipped an arm around his waist. 

Sherlock fell, and then he was standing somewhere different. In an alley, just next to a large tree. The only tree of it’s kind that’s leafs had gone red and brown yet.

Sherlock glanced down, but he hadn’t actually fallen. It had just felt like falling. His stomach had done that odd plummeting sensation but it appeared as though Sherlock had simply shifted place. Odd.

And then he did fall, gripping Jim’s shoulders, suddenly come over with nausea. Sherlock pressed a hand to his mouth. He felt half dead. 

Perhaps alive people weren’t quite meant to teleport.

Jim stroked his back soothingly, and the sensation passed after a few moments. Sherlock straightened up and stepped through Jim’s arms, who’d gone insubstantial again, then glanced around.

If Sherlock was right, and Jim certainly thought so, the suspect had been kipping here for a while. Not due to a lack of house, but more due to needing to lie low. He was probably in danger, people watching his house for the next week or so.

Sherlock knew who he was looking for. ‘Who’ hadn’t been the issue, but ‘where’. So he leaned against on the of the walls in the alley and waited, tapping his fingertips against his thigh while he waited for the suspect to show.

Jim was lying on the wall beside Sherlock, keeping quiet for a few minutes before he got bored. “What _did_ they end up naming baby Watson?”

Sherlock barely gave Jim a glance. “Alice.”

Jim nodded thoughtfully. He tapped his feet, not creating any noise, and blew a long suffering sigh into the air. “How’s Mary?”

“Good. Bit overprotective of Alice, but good.” 

A few more minutes passed.

Jim kicked through a pebble, eventually falling to the ground solidly and leaning on Sherlock. “Stakeouts. Never fun.” He mused, earning an overly sympathetic pat on the shoulder from Sherlock that went just a little bit into him.

“I do apologize, are you bored?” Sherlock asked, looking at Jim with large amounts of concern.

Jim glowered and sat on the floor, sighing theatrically. “Fine, fine. Be mean to me. It’s not like I came back to life for you or anything.”

Sherlock laughed. “You’re still dead, Jim. Did you forget?”

Jim looked down at his hands. “Ah, right. Yes.” He looked over to Sherlock with a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “But I can teleport and float, so who needs life anyway?” Jim asked, and Sherlock relented.

That was a very good point, in an odd way.

“You’re cold now, though.” Sherlock pointed out.

Jim’s brow furrowed and he stood up, touching his hands together. “No I’m not.” He replied, looking at Sherlock with confusion. Sherlock frowned and reached out to hold Jim’s hand in his own, Jim’s skin cool to the touch as usual.

“Yes you are. Can’t you feel how warm I am compared to you?”

Jim ran both his hands over Sherlock’s one, then up his arm, concentrating. “No. You feel normal.” He continued his inspection of Sherlock’s forearm, but found no overly warm placed. Then his shoulders went slack and he paused. “Oh. Of course.”

He pulled his hands away and tucked them into his pockets. Sherlock waited for him to continue.

“I’m dead.”

Sherlock nodded, they had already confirmed that a long while ago.

“So I can’t feel heat. Or lack thereof, I suppose.”

Sherlock looked Jim up and down, he didn’t seem particularly happy about the realization. “Is that bad?”

Jim quickly regained his neutral, self assured expression and waved his hand dismissively. “No, not at all, pet.” He’d just miss heat, was all. Jim was rarely happier than when he was curled up in front of a fire, reading and half asleep.

Perhaps being dead wasn’t so great, after all.

Sherlock was unsure to how fine Jim actually was, but he gave a short nod to accept Jim brushing it off. Jim was silently grateful, and that’s where the conversation ended.

 

They waited for another two hours, now and then chatting idly about some theories (both found the saddle universe theory laughable, because they also both agreed that the universe most certainly did not have an edge).

In the middle of a debate about the identity of Jack the Ripper, Sherlock froze and went silent, eyes locked onto a man walking across the street. Jim followed his gaze and smiled. It seemed as though the stakeout was coming to an end.

Sherlock ducked into the shadows and Jim stayed where he was, it wasn’t as though anyone but Sherlock could see him, anyway. There was another long wait until the man finally went into the alleyway, and Sherlock stepped out from behind him. “Mr. Handstruff, I’m placing you under arrest for-”

Sherlock cut himself off, glancing down at the barrel of a gun calmly. “There’s no need to be like that. The world is already on the look out for you, there no chance of escape.” _Don’t be an idiot_ seeped through Sherlock’s words clearly.

Handstruff hesitated. “You’re lying.” He spat, cocking the gun and pointing it at Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock sighed irritably. “I’m not. Come quietly, you can make a deal.” He assured, glad to see consideration leak into Handstruff’s eyes.

Then there was a hard determination that made Sherlock’s stomach drop and the sound of a gunshot ring out.

 

“...Ow.” Jim winced, watching blood seep from a hole in his suit. Sherlock he felt frozen in place, glancing over to Handstruff who eye’s had widened in surprise, and he dropped his gun and took a step back. 

“Where- where the _hell_ did you come from?”

Jim gave a small, breathless laugh. “Oh, probably.” He said, although the joke seemed to be lost on the scared man. Jim straightened up and the wound closed over, then the blood lifted off from his suit and evaporated into the air.

“You know.” He started, words carefully placed and dark, making Sherlock’s survival instinct start to act up, trying to tell him to run. “I don’t particularly like it when people try to kill Sherlock.”

“Jim.” Sherlock said softly, but went ignored.

“In fact, I’ve killed _lots_ of people for trying to do that. In various ways. I mean, I even killed myself for trying to kill Sherlock.” Jim laughed, not a trace of humor in his voice.

Jim hummed, stepping closer. “In fact, I think I might kill you.”

“ _Jim_.”

“Just a second, darling. Daddy’s taking care of some business.” Jim sang, then held up hand palm up in the air, fingers splayed. “Just a little experiment, okay?” He asked, lifting his shoulders shyly for a moment before emotion fled from his form.

Jim started to curl his fingers inward and Handstruff doubled over, coughing up small amounts of blood.

Sherlock glanced at him, then turned his gaze to Moriarty. His fingers got closer to forming a fist and it was clear Handstruff couldn’t breathe, only managing a few bloody coughs.

Sherlock reached out and gripped Moriarty’s shoulder, turning him around so he was facing Sherlock. Sherlock placed his hand on Moriarty’s, and locked eyes with him. “Don’t kill him.”

Moriarty’s eyes flashed and curled his fingers in more, a wet hacking cough sounding from behind him. “He tried to kill you, Sherlock.” Moriarty said, anger apparent in his rigid muscles.

“I know, I know.” Sherlock’s thumb stroked soothing circles in Moriarty’s palm, and he felt Moriarty start to relax a bit. “But you saved me.” He murmured, giving a soft smile. “You saved me, okay? I’m fine. You don’t have to kill him, and besides, that’s merciful in comparison to having to go to jail. You know that.”

Moriarty hesitated, glancing back over to Handstruff, who was barely hanging onto the edge of consciousness. He looked at Sherlock for a long, drawn out moment, then Jim dropped his hand and nodded.

Handstruff crumpled, and Sherlock quickly texted Lestrade, telling him to bring an ambulance. Jim was quiet, regarding Handstruff with cold eyes while Sherlock answered a phone call (Lestrade, worrying that Sherlock had gotten hurt. Sherlock spent a while assuring Lestrade that he was fine).

Then Sherlock took Jim’s hand again and eased him closer, safe in the knowledge that Handstruff would still be unconscious when the police got here. “Let’s go home, Jim.” Sherlock breathed, and Jim nodded tiredly.

 

Sherlock appeared on his bed, Jim standing in the corner of the room and studying him carefully. “I’m not sorry.” He stated, and Sherlock chuckled lightly before nodding.

“I know, Jim. I’m not asking you to be.” He replied, then sat up and beckoned him over.

Jim complied, sitting down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, legs tucked underneath him. Sherlock reached up and ran his hand along Jim’s jaw, pulling him down and kissing him softly. “Thank you. For saving my life.”

Jim smiled, returning the kiss with a short, gentle one of his own. “It’s the least I can do.” He murmured, laying down next to Sherlock and stroking his side.

“How did you do that?” Sherlock asked, curiosity returning now that the adrenaline had died down.

“Oh.” Jim hummed. “You know, I’m not entirely sure. It was… odd. I could feel his life, and it seemed so easy to just… squeeze out of him.” He frowned. “Perhaps I’m a Grim Reaper.”

“You’d think someone would have told you.”

Jim laughed. “What, the afterlife king?”

“I don’t know!” Sherlock raised his hands defensively. “Just someone.”

Jim smiled fondly and shifted closer, running his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Well, I’ll ask around once I finish my business here, or however I stop being a ghost. But I just simply woke up a day or two after I died, and the first thing I saw was you. Didn’t meet anyone else.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, draping his arm over Jim’s waist. He almost forgot that they’d never been this close before. It felt normal, comforting. “He saw you, as well.”

“Yes.” Jim frowned. “That wasn’t on purpose. I’m not sure why it happened.”

He shrugged uncaringly, like it didn’t interest him. Which was true, at the moment. Didn’t rate high on the importance scale. “Go to sleep, pet. Feel free to dream of snogging me again, by the way.”

Sherlock blushed lightly but smiled. He closed his eyes and rested his head on Jim’s chest, yawning softly. “That was one time. And it was a weird dream.” Sherlock muttered.

Jim held his tongue from teasing Sherlock more, wanting him to get some sleep. Jim stayed quiet, so Sherlock did as well, and it wasn’t very long until Sherlock drifted from the world of the conscious.

 

Sherlock couldn’t find Jim.

It wasn’t as though they were connected at the hip, but due to Jim practically being on a leash from his unfinished business he could usually be found in around ten minutes. Lately, it had taken even less time because Sherlock had started to figure out the places where Jim liked to spend his time.

While on his search, Sherlock passed John’s old room.

He stopped his search, looking at the door. Sherlock had opened it exactly once John had left, and closed it the moment that the bareness of it had become unbearable.

But now, having checked everywhere else, Sherlock found himself having little choice in the matter. He closed his hand around doorknob and turned, a sliver of sight into the room widening as Sherlock stepped in.

It wasn’t bare. In fact, it had been transformed.

Sherlock looked around with mixed feelings, taking everything in. Jim would have been able to tell instantly that Sherlock was purposely preserving the remains of John’s old room, but…

It was a library.

The walls had been transformed into shelves, books covering them and laid over themselves, even more books spilling into neat stacks on the floor. Two large, comfortable looking chairs were situated in the center of the room, one green and one blue, a side table between them with a few elegant coasters placed there to hold cups of tea.

Jim had been curled up on the green chair, but when Sherlock entered he had glanced up from his book, put in a red ribbon to mark the page, then closed it and straightened out. “Ah, finally. Do you know how hard it is to secretly redecorate a room? Not sleeping helps, but actually not a tremendous amount.”

Sherlock stared at Jim blankly, caught between anger and childlike excitement. Jim had disregarded something important to Sherlock, but with good intentions. Help him move on, move past John. Sherlock glanced down to the ribbon Jim had been using as a bookmark, then back to Jim’s face.

“Where did you get the books?” He surprised himself by asking.

“My bedroom. The one in my old flat. These are only my favorites, or ones I thought you’d particularly enjoy.” Although there was much overlap there. “Oh, and a thesaurus.” 

Jim stood up and popped up in front of Sherlock, wrapping a hand around his wrist and walking him over to the chair. Compliantly, Sherlock sat down in in the blue chair. Jim smiled and retook his position in the green one, tucking his feet underneath himself and handing Sherlock the book he had been reading.

Sherlock accepted, hand toying with the ribbon while he considered whether to berate Jim or not. He glanced over to Jim, then back at the bookmark. 

After a few moments passed, Sherlock opened up the book, pages crinkling, and threaded the ribbon through his fingers while he started to read from the top of the page.

Neither Sherlock nor Jim left the new library until the sun set, hours later.

 

“Isn’t this better?” Jim asked, curled up against Sherlock with his head resting on Sherlock’s chest.

Well, there was certainly more floor room.

Jim had succeeded in convincing Sherlock to change how his flat looked, but failed to get Sherlock to leave Jim to decide everything despite how well he’d done with the library, and it had ended up being a joint effort. After gaining access to one of Jim’s bank accounts, and taking a visit to his old flat, 221B looked positively stylish.

Still messy and cluttered, but stylishly messy and cluttered. Sort of.

The point was, it looked better, and the new couch was far more comfortable, and Sherlock’s new chair was as well, and John’s chair…

Well. Sherlock had thought best to throw it out, and not replace it. John didn’t live here anymore, and Jim hardly needed a seat, so now a plush carpet laid where John’s chair had once been.

One, it seemed, that was extremely comfortable to lie on. In front of it, the fireplace was actually serving it’s purpose for once, warming Sherlock who was on his back, enjoying the carpet as well as the reassuring pressure of Jim’s body against his.

Sherlock placed a dark red ribbon to mark the page he was on, then shut the book he had been reading out loud.

“Yeah, you know what, I think it is.” Sherlock mused, getting an affectionate kiss on the neck from Jim.

Sherlock glanced over to the fire, sparks and crackles from it calming, then down at Jim. 

Jim had his eyes closed, but he was smiling. He’d had his eyes closed for a while, enjoying listening to Sherlock read, and- of course- not sleeping. Sherlock hadn’t seen Jim sleep, didn’t know if Jim slept. 

Jim’s eyes opened when Sherlock didn’t continue reading, and they peered up at him, taking in his appearance. “You look sleepy, pet. Want to go to bed?”

Honestly, Sherlock would much rather lay in front of the fire, reading to Jim an endless supply of books than do just about anything else. But it was late, and falling asleep entangled with Jim held a strong appeal as well, so Sherlock nodded slowly.

As if to help confirm his answer, a yawn escaped Sherlock’s mouth, and Jim looked at Sherlock with an amused fondness. “Alright. Get up, kitten.” He murmured, standing up himself and holding out a hand to Sherlock. 

Once Sherlock accepted it and stood up, the book they’d been reading drifted up and placed itself on the mantelpiece. Still helpful. Sherlock and Jim walked to bed, Sherlock tugging off his shirt and taking off his belt while Jim simply changed so he was wearing pajama bottoms.

He didn’t actually have to physically change his clothes, he just shifted his appearance to whatever struck his fancy. As well as now donning different clothes, Jim’s hair was let loose and not slicked back, almost disheveled looking as he sank into the bed and wrapped around Sherlock, both of them saying their goodnights before Sherlock went to sleep.

 

“No.”

Sherlock glared at Jim darkly, as he’d been doing for the past ten minutes to no avail.

“Pleeeeease? I just want to see how my darling little sniper is, is that so much to ask?”

Sherlock shot Jim an incredulous look. “ _Yes!_ He aimed a gun at my head, Jim. And probably blames me for your death. He undoubtedly hating me right now.”

Jim rolled his eyes, falling back dramatically onto Sherlock’s lap, legs draped over one arm of the chair. “But I’m _worried_ about him, poor thing. How he’s dealing with my death, with running my network.” Jim bit his lips, looking up at Sherlock with large, sweet doe eyes. “Just to calm my mind, pet. I promise it won’t take long.”

Sherlock’s teeth worried at the inside of his cheek while he stared at Jim, who was looking up at him expectantly. It didn’t help that he had a little, hopeful smile painted over his lips either. Sherlock sighed dramatically, slumping back against the chair in defeat. “Fine.”

Jim’s smile grew and he leaned forward to kiss Sherlock. He’d started doing that rather often now, as a reward. Sherlock got kissed when he made himself something to eat, when he accepted a case, whenever he did something that Jim deemed good.

Because of it Sherlock had started getting healthier. He’d not so much as touched any drugs since Jim first appeared in full physical form, and his eating habits improved greatly. 

Sherlock has also been much more pliable, although it was possible that was just because he wanted to follow through on many of Jim’s ideas anyway. Experiments littered Sherlock’s kitchen again, and the few times that Mycroft had come over he’d seemed pleased.

After a little while of reward kisses, Sherlock picked Jim up and stood up, then set him down on the chair and went to fetch his laptop. Jim floated up when Sherlock returned, moving over to the couch so Sherlock could sit and type. 

“Why the laptop?” Jim asked, and Sherlock glanced over to see him draped over the couch, one arm hanging off of it and grazing the floor. Clearly, Jim was more liquid than most people, considering his tendency to sprawl over everything like a plastic bag full of water. 

“How else am I to find Moran?” Sherlock retorted, and Jim giggled.

“ _Silly_ , I can just tell you where he is. Or teleport you there.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the thought of teleporting, it hadn’t gotten any less unpleasant. The nausea still only lasted a few moments, but it was intense while it was there. “Or not teleport you there, I suppose.” Jim corrected, looking amused.

Sherlock shut his laptop with a click and a sigh, standing up. He didn’t feel like paying for a cab, nor interacting with a cabbie, so teleportation it was. “No, do it. May as well get this over with.” He said, and Jim appeared next to him and then they both appeared in a small flat.

 

After Sherlock’s stomach stopped turning, he asked, “Isn’t your successor meant to be, well, filthy rich?” Keeping his voice down as he looked around.

Jim nodded. “Yes, but he’s a terribly self blaming little thing. To him, it’s equally his and your fault that I died, and therefore he’s punishing himself.” He picked his way across the floor, glancing into a room and deflating. 

Jim’s eyes fell to the floor and he stepped back again, looking over at Sherlock with guilt and disappointment in his eyes. Curiousity peaked, Sherlock tiptoed over and peeked through the door as well. 

First thing he noticed, it was a bedroom. A poorly lit one, at that. A few guns littered the floor, as well as bottles. Upon a longer inspection, Sherlock realized they were empty bottles of what was most likely cheap whiskey. And there was one passed out man in the bed, hand closed around a handgun. 

Lovely. 

“I want to go.” Jim whispered, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he could speak without waking Sebastian, so he nodded and wrapped his arms around Jim, quickly finding himself back in his flat and fighting the urge to throw up.

Sherlock coughed, realizing he was on his knees. That hadn’t happened before, he always had Jim to lean against for support after they teleported. Sherlock stood up and glanced around, not seeing Jim anywhere. 

He had to be close by, though. In all likelihood, Jim had gone invisible again to get some privacy. It was clear he hadn’t expected Moran to be dealing with his death quite so badly, and was now dealing with the shock of it. Sherlock could understand that. He had felt the same, to a lesser degree, when he had found out what had happened to Anderson.

“I’ll be in my room.” Sherlock said into the silence, then turned and went to bed, getting out a book to read. (Jim had suggested it, so far it had been amusing in it’s mistakes and insightful in some places.)

A few hours later Sherlock felt a weight settle down next to him, although he still didn’t see anything when he glanced over. Sherlock shifted, letting Jim be able to read the book along with him, and waiting until a soft tap on his shoulder told Sherlock that he could turn the page.

 

Sherlock hadn’t been entirely sure about it, being around Alice Watson while Jim was still haunting him, but so far it had gone well.

So far it had gone fantastically, actually. 

Mary and John were out on a date, and Sherlock was babysitting. Jim had spent the first few minutes glaring at the small human with jealousy, because of how much attention Sherlock was paying her, but soon realized that waving things in the air caused great amusement to Alice.

Jim had always liked cats. He appeared to take this like of shiny, hovering things as a sign of Alice being cat like, and henceforth started to like her.

Keys were currently the big hit, which made sense, they made nice chiming sounds and reflected light very well. Jim was kneeling in front of Alice, shaking them in the air, and Alice was more or less batting at them with her hands.

So Jim may not view Alice as someone worth of respect. Or, you know, more than a pet that he would grow bored of if forced to take care of for an extended amount of time. For now he was keeping her happy and entertained, as well as himself and Sherlock.

He didn’t get bored before it was time for them to go, and stayed in a rather good mood for the remainder of the day, randomly pulling Sherlock into long, sweet kisses while going about normal business.

Jim even made Sherlock a cup of tea.

 

It had been a little over three weeks since the Moran incident, and Jim seemed to be back to his usual self.

“ _Please_ help me Mr. Holmes!” Jim called, dramatically reading off a message on Sherlock’s website while Sherlock sat nearby, drinking expensive wine and looking on with amusement. “I just don’t know _what_ to do. My daughter has disappeared! She’s only twenty two, and I’m worried she’s run off with her girlfriend!” Jim looked over to Sherlock pleadingly. “Please find out where’s she’s gone off to, so I can find her and bring her home safely.” He finished, and Sherlock clapped.

Jim grinned, blinking away his fake tears and folding his arms in front of him. He settled down, scrolling through a new string of messages. “Oh dear me.” Jim breathed, clicking his tongue disappointedly. “Why, this is just terrible.” He frowned, sending Sherlock a heartbroken look.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and scooted closer, glancing at the screen. “What is?”

Jim bit his lip nervously. “Well, it appears some of your fans are worried that you’re…” He looked around conspiratorily, then rolled onto his back. “Gay.” Jim finished, whispering and looking at Sherlock fearfully.

“Oh?” Sherlock leaned over Jim, placing his weight on an arm that rested over Jim’s head.

Jim giggled and brought up a curled hand to his lips, using innocent doe eyes on Sherlock. Which was, and forever would count as, cheating. “Stay away from me. I don’t want to catch your gay-ness.” Jim whispered, fighting back a laugh. “I mean, ew.” He added, wrinkling his nose for bonus points.

Sherlock laughed and got hit with a pillow, grinning down at a scowling Jim who couldn’t quite hide his own smile. “Will you take this seriously? You might turn me gay, have some respect.” He berated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned down to press his lips against Jim’s, who wrapped an arm around the back of Sherlock’s neck and let the game slip away, sliding his mouth open pliantly. 

Jim rested his other hand on Sherlock’s chest, fingers toying idly with the buttons of his shirt, sighing contently into Sherlock’s mouth.

Even his breath was cold, but Sherlock had learned that he liked the cool touches of Jim’s skin, of his lips, it was odd in a very soothing, nice way. 

The hand that was attached to the arm on Sherlock’s neck slipped into his hair to hold him closer, but it let Sherlock pull back when he needed to breathe, then Jim moved it to swipe his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. 

 

“Jim?” Sherlock asked, voice soft.

“Yes?”

“...I. I think that I-”

 

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock quickly jumped away, tugging the computer into his lap and picking up his glass of wine. Jim sat up slowly as the door opened, and Mycroft stepped through. 

Jim stuck out his tongue at Mycroft, then popped up behind him and gave Mycroft bunny ears with his hands. Sherlock didn’t react, used to Jim messing with people when they were in the room, mostly to amuse himself while Sherlock had to ignore him.

“Mycroft. What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, voice uncaring but not as cold and cutting as it used to be when he was dealing with his brother.

Mycroft smiled tightly for a moment before closing the door and walking further in, standing in the center of the room. Jim rolled his eyes at the drama and floated down to be sitting next to Sherlock, half sunk into the floor.

“Sherlock.” Oh, his name, that wasn’t good. Jim frowned, straightening up slightly and already clicking into his protective side. “Some things have been brought to my attention, and I have to say I’m-”

“Concerned?” Sherlock finished, rolling his eyes and standing up. He placed his glass on the table. “As you can probably see, I’m fine. Clean, even. This is only my second glass of wine, actually, and I’ve barely had a few sips of it in the past half hour.”

Mycroft didn’t smile, or frown, but he looked at Sherlock evenly. “I know. In fact, I’ve been wondering for a while what pulled you out of your… low period. It was quite a mystery, because I did nothing, and neither John nor Lestrade have been able to tell me what happened.”

Sherlock didn’t show his worry, nor did he glance over to Jim, knowing that Mycroft was scanning him for any tells. “And you’re here because you want to know why?”

Mycroft’s tight smile returned, again leaving as quickly as it had appeared. He gestured to the door with his umbrella, tilting his head. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere.”

It was an obvious trap. Well, not a trap exactly, but Sherlock knew that Mycroft had this all planned out. That going with him couldn’t end well. 

Then again, what choice did he have in the matter, really?

Sherlock set his jaw and picked up his glass, polishing off the rest of the wine, then he put it down and walked out the door, pleased by the annoyed twinge it caused in Mycroft’s brow. That was something, at least.

Jim floated just behind Sherlock, then sat on the storage compartment in-between the driver and passenger seats when they got in a car.

The ride was taken in silence.

Mycroft stayed quiet as a power play, to make Sherlock feel guilty. Sherlock stayed quiet because he was busy thinking, and hiding the worry that coursed through his veins. Jim stayed quiet because didn’t know what to say.

They arrived at Mycroft’s house, and went into his study, the unnatural silence prevailing save the tapping of two pairs of shoes on hardwood floor.

Mycroft sat in the chair behind his desk, Sherlock didn’t sit at all, and Jim perched on back of one of the chairs in front of Mycroft’s desk. It was a small source of comfort to Sherlock, that despite the general tone of this gathering Jim was still holding onto his core odd self.

“You’ve been talking to yourself.” Mycroft said, and Sherlock tensed. “At crime scenes, in public. You were talking before I entered, although there was no one else there.”

Jim glanced between Sherlock and Mycroft, uneasy. They’d been careful. Not incredibly careful, but Mycroft shouldn’t be able to know what was actually going on.

“Was there?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock looked away, ashamed that he couldn’t fool Mycroft at the moment. Mycroft would be able to see through it, if he made something up on the fly. He and Jim hadn’t planned for this.

Mycroft’s voice softened when he next spoke, sounding sympathetic. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you Sherlock, but when you started seeing Moriarty, you should have come to me.”

Sherlock looked up in alarm, because even if Mycroft had known he was seeing _someone_ , he shouldn’t have-

Oh.

Oh no, no no no.

Of course. Jim. He’d said Jim’s name often enough, and it wasn’t a hard leap from there. There was only so many people Sherlock’s would hallucinate after all, right?

“What are you going to do to me, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was remarkably even, he would have been proud of it if not for the minor distraction of panic setting in his mind.

Mycroft stood up, and Sherlock immediately took a step back, wanting to keep his distance. If he ran, there was the chance he’d be able to outsmart Mycroft and disappear. Sherlock had his own resources at his disposal, those who weren’t fond of authority figures. And no doubt that Jim would help as well.

It wasn’t a large chance, but it was possible.

 

Mycroft carefully took another step closer, and Sherlock turned to look at the door, judging the difference versus how long it would take for people to appear when Mycroft called. No, Mycroft would have pre-planned this, they would be close.

“I just want to help you, brother mine. You won’t see him any more.” Mycroft assured, and clearly he didn’t understand that Sherlock couldn’t imagine life with Jim again. Last time it had gone badly enough, and this time he was in deeper. They spend almost all their time together. They had gotten attached.

Sherlock couldn’t help it, at Mycroft’s words, he looked over to Jim, who looked about as bad as Sherlock felt. He hadn’t moved from on top the chair, but his hands were balled into fists and he looked completely out of his depth. He didn’t know what to do, how to help, if he even could.

Jim was trying to make himself be visable again, to everyone, but it wasn’t _working_. He didn’t know how. It had only happened once before, as a fluke, and when Sherlock’s life was in danger. Jim couldn’t summon the feeling again.

Mycroft followed Sherlock’s gaze and steeled his gaze. “Ah, so he’s here, then?” Mycroft paused, then returned his attention to Sherlock. “He’s not real, Sherlock. You have to believe me.”

Sherlock turned to the door and two large men came through. He successfully knocked one out, elbow to the back of the head then knee to the front, but was detained by the other one, wrists secured behind his back by the man’s hands.

“Mycroft- please, you know me. I can deal with this.”

Jim appeared beside Sherlock, swinging his elbow up at the man but passing through him. He shot Sherlock a helpless glance.

“I will do whatever I need to do to help you, Sherlock, even if you hate me for it. This isn’t healthy.”

_Yeah, well, neither was being a depressed junkie but you let that slide for quite the while. I guess I was less of a threat to the crown as an addict then as I am seeing a criminal, though._

“Sherlock, I can’t do anything. I can’t touch.” Jim said, sounding pained, and Sherlock shook his head. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright. Not your fault.” Sherlock replied, and tried kicking backwards at the man restraining him, struggling desperately. 

“Ignore him, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft, please!”  
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Sherlock.”  
“Get someone else in here!”  
“Mycroft, listen to me!”  
“It’s okay, brother mine. You’ll feel better when this is all over.”

More words went rushing back, another person came in, creating a general state of confusion in Sherlock’s head. Only one thing ended up standing out. “Don’t fight, Sherlock.” Jim’s voice. “Please, just let them get rid of me. Then they won’t hurt you.”

Jim stepped back and resigned himself to going back to being unable to communicate with or even touch Sherlock, needing to say one final thing.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Then everyone froze. Sherlock blinked as the hands on his wrists were loosened, and he tore them away, glancing around as he caught sight of Jim.

Of Jim glowing.

Everyone else seemed to be seeing him, as well. 

Okay.

“Oh.” Jim glanced at his hands, then down at his body. He felt light. Actually, he felt warm. It was something he had definitely missed, warmth. Jim smiled softly, looking up at Sherlock. “You know, I think that was it. My unfinished business.”

Mycroft stood in incredulous silence. Sherlock took a step closer to Jim, then another. He looked over him carefully, then met his gaze with wide eyes. Unfinished business was what was tying Jim here. With it complete…

Sherlock fell to his knees. “Don’t go, Jim.” He breathed, a soft whisper of a plead. 

Jim glided across the floor, feeling moving ethereally and without pause, the glow getting brighter. He kneeled in front of Sherlock, cupping his jaw. “It’s out of my hands, darling.” Jim murmured.

Sherlock brought up a hand to rest over one of Jim’s, his skin warm to the touch. Sherlock felt a pang, Jim was cool. Just below room temperature. He shouldn’t have the heat of a normal person. It felt weird. 

Wrong.

“I’ll miss you.” Sherlock said, although it was obvious, he had to say it. Jim nodded, eyes watering, but he was still smiling softly.

“I’ll miss you too. God, I’ll miss you.”

Sherlock leaned up and kissed Jim desperately, hand winding into his hair. “Jim?”

Jim met Sherlock’s eyes. “Yeah?”

“I love you too.”

The light grew, and Jim’s skin got hotter, until Sherlock had to pull away and squint his eyes. 

Heat rolled off Jim in waves, white spilling into every inch of the room, then he was gone. Mycroft’s study went cold and dark, and Sherlock sat back on his heels.

Something was in Sherlock’s hand. He glanced down.

The red ribbon. Of course.

Sherlock started laughing, and he laughed until his sides ached and his cheeks were wet with tears. He laughed until his head hurt, until every muscle in him screamed in protest and his mind begged for Jim to come back.

**Author's Note:**

> hey look its the product of a long writing binge
> 
> also huge huge thanks to [vexingholmes](http://vexingholmes.tumblr.com) for beta'ing this whole thing for me


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